Interlude VIII

I know this poem has already appeared here, but it was in the context of my Sophie Kerr portfolio. This is one that I really like at the moment and I wanted to post it in its correct season. I always have a picture of the beech trees on my college campus in my head when I read this poem, with their huge roots and thick branches and the season far enough gone that all the leaves are golden-brown.

And if you don't know much about henna, it is a plant that is used to make dye for hair (ranging from browns to reds) and for those beautiful brown temporary tattoos (many Eastern religions use henna to elaborately tattoo their hands for marriage ceremonies). It looks like mud when you put it on and smells like rich earth and green things and dead flowers and when you use it as a hair dye, leaves your hair smelling delicious for days.

Henna

If you bury your face in my hair,

freshly turned with the leaves to flame,

I will feel your breath on my neck

like the winds of the season changing.

If you tell me I smell like herbs and earth,

I will pull you down below the air,

into the roots, where we must breathe

with our skin and drink with our toes.